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Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the
shore, “Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," And thy lov'd consort on the dang’rous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'dMe howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, Sails ripp’d, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current’s thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosp’rous course. Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not, that I deduce my birth From loins enthron’d, and rulers of the Earth; But higher far my proud pretensions riseThe son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell-Time unrevok'd has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
What virtue, or what mental grace,
Will boast it their possession?
And dulness of discretion.
If ev'ry polish'd gem we find,
Provoke to imitation;
Or rather constellation.
No knave but boldly will pretend
A real and a sound one;
And dream that he had found one.
Candid, and generous, and just,
An errour soon corrected
For who but learns in riper years,
Is most to be suspected?
But here again a danger lies,
And taken trash for treasure,
We should unwarily conclude
A mere Utopian pleasure.
An acquisition rather rare
Nor is it wise complaining,
We sought without attaining.
No friendship will abide the test,
Or mean self-love erected;
For vicious ends connected.